


Yanking the Monster from Its Lair

by iplierfic



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Dark, Darkiplier origin story, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paranomal, Twisted ideas of love, continuation of WKM, dubcon, more like an AU continuation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 07:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14159514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iplierfic/pseuds/iplierfic
Summary: In the wake of WKM, Darkiplier emerges in large part due to the actions of Wilford Warfstache.





	Yanking the Monster from Its Lair

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon = dubious consent. This story is a twisted romance, featuring a Frankensteinian interpretation of Dark's origin. Like the character, this fic is dark, but I hope it'll be worth your time.

Lifting Its gaze from the cane, the monster stares at Its reflection.

 

The longer It looks, the less real It feels.  In the place where It belongs, a higher realm of being which does not predispose its inhabitants – if there are others; of this, the monster has never been sure – to reflection, the monster has always been alone and intangible.  As far as the monster has ever known, It has never had a form; It exists without a foothold, as disembodied as the Universe Itself.

 

Viewing Its own self for the first time, It experiences a rupturing of reality that matches the way the mirror shatters, a snarl twitching Its lips.  Its body is heavy, Its mind is unraveling, but It looks at Its own gaze and finds conviction, rage.  A wave of repulsion casts Its gaze from the mirror.  It surges away, and the scene is lost.

 

But the story pursues the monster, lingering over Its shoulder, possessing a tangible form for the first time, presented beneath a well-pressed suit.  Everything about It feels strangely decisive, like It was waiting for this form.  Perhaps It was; or perhaps It would simply adhere to whatever foundation welcomed It.  It does not feel welcome; Its skin seems ill-fitted, and It walks with great urgency down the hall, following the trail of another voice.

 

“Come out now!” the Colonel shrieks, playful laughter carrying a diamond edge that entrances the monster.  It has never known pain – not in the same visceral way that these lower beings have, possessing no form Itself – but It understands the wordless agony of the creature falling apart before Its eyes.  “Show yourself, Damien!  _Celine!_ ”  With sudden fury, the Colonel turns sharply and faces It, and laughs.  “Oh, there you are,” the Colonel croons.

 

“Where am I?” are the first words the monster utters.  Its voice is deep and sharp and echoes strangely, just like the cracked visage of the mirror.  For a moment, It cannot understand Its own words.  In the higher realm It calls home, speech does not exist.  Memory alone drives a sensation of different temporal spaces.  In the room, aloud, Its voice seems huge, filling the ether with Its quixotic tone, unheard of in this realm: “Who are you?”

 

The Colonel steps forward and cups Its face.  “My dear, dear friend,” he says, wagging the monster’s head back and forth a little.  Bones crack dully, but it doesn’t hurt.  The monster cannot feel pain.  There is simply no connection between the screaming nerves and the monster’s consciousness.  “You have had too much to drink,” the Colonel narrates with a chuckle.  “Your faculties are much misplaced.  We’ll cure it with a dip in the pool.  Won’t that be wonderful?”  The man releases the monster, oblivious to the threat burning in the monster’s eyes, taking instead Its hand.  The gesture is strangely desperate; the monster feels sweat cooling on the man’s palm, but it is a detached feeling, insulated by a layer of disconnected awareness.

 

 _No pain.  No feeling_.

 

The Colonel leads them through the mansion – _Mark Iplier’s mansion_ – and out into the rain.  The monster looks up at the sky without blinking.  Its expression in the windows is blank, unimpressed.  “Come, come,” the Colonel insists lightly.  “Let’s go take a dip in the pond.”  Giggling, he reaches forward and yanks the tie hanging untucked around the monster’s neck.  “You won’t need this, old friend.”  He drags the monster forward by the half-undone tie, almost childlike in his urgency but strangely intense in his gaze.  No child possesses that intensity, the monster thinks, and finally the Colonel frees It of the tie.  A chain falls from Its neck; Its breath comes easier, heavier.

 

The rain dapples the swimming pool, and the monster does not particularly desire to be enveloped in the water – It understands on a primitive level that destruction awaits Its present form if It is not careful, the notion of impermanence arresting and unsettling, death an unfamiliar idea to It – but the Colonel coaxes the suffocating jacket from the monster’s shoulders, and It can breathe easier, heavier.

 

The Colonel strips the monster of the shirt button-by-button, and the monster watches with cool dispassion as it slides away.  It feels – freer, and heavier, and suddenly aware of Its own exposure to the mad man.  To distract Itself from the unsettled feeling, It slides off the remaining garments, and stands at the edge of the pool.

 

“Geronimo!” the Colonel cries, launching himself into the pool fully clothed, splashing grandly into the water.  The monster flinches at the sound, at the memory of the sound, a thunderclap that fades almost as quickly as it arrives.  So little is retained by the monster’s consciousness that the monster feels more unraveled; It should remember everything, every pulse, every moment, but everything here is so finite, and fleeting, and the monster is beginning to lose Its grasp.

 

It leaps and plunges into the infinite, inhaling water, resurfacing violently when the Colonel yanks It upright.  “Damien,” he begs, and the name makes the monster hiss and flinch because It is not _Damien_.  Yet the way the Colonel says it, voice cracking, holding onto the monster with a ferocity that belies great pain, makes the monster quiet.  “Celine, I – I know it’s you.”

 

The monster averts Its gaze sharply.  It cannot express the inexpressible.  _I am no one._   Even “I” seems out of place.  It is no one.  It is nothing, but a presence.  A consumptive force; the name of the Universe Itself, perhaps.

 

The Colonel holds It above the frothing waters, stirred up by a little fountain and the dappling rain and their own small renormalizing movements.  The monster breathes, the Colonel breathes, too close to each other.  Without warning, the Colonel lunges forward, mouth closing over the monster’s.  The monster does not flinch as the Colonel kisses hard enough to draw a taste of copper to Its lips.

 

There is something like love in the agony, and the monster only waits It out, refusing to drown in this realm of death.  It desires to return to Its own realm more than It desires to inflict thoughtless cruelty upon the Colonel for his actions.  It aches to renormalize so profoundly that it _does_ feel something like pain: a deep-seated agony that rings in Its ears, loudly.  Like a siren.  The sound makes Its teeth clench.  Again, that muffled cracking noise, but no pain.

 

With fierce determination, the Colonel opens Its mouth with his tongue, and the monster allows the intrusion, allows the contact to breach propriety and all understanding of politeness, allows the strange alien interaction of skin-to-skin contact to consume it. 

 

This act, It thinks, as the Colonel kisses It over and over and over and over like he is thirsty and the monster is the only thing he can drink, is sacred to the primitive realm It finds Itself in.  Consequently, it is nearly meaningless to the monster.  There is no pleasure; there is no pain.  The Colonel is enthusiastic and urgent, acting on animal impulses the monster does not share; the monster is unmoved.  But the monster cannot be said to be a non-participating party, for It grasps the Colonel with marble hands and breathes steadily and heavily against the Colonel’s neck, entranced, consumed.

 

It does not even have an emotion, let alone a word, for what transpires between them.  All It knows is a mystifying sense of togetherness, a paradoxical calmness at being utterly divided and still sharing their aloneness in the universe.  It is peaceful.  For a time, the monster’s head is so quiet that even the ringing seems to silence, and It keeps Its chin on the Colonel’s shoulder while the Colonel pursues his own goal, independent of the monster, making noises that the monster would never allow to pass Its own lips, for something like shame, or simply fear.

 

It will never share Its own weaknesses with others, and when the Colonel finally ceases to move altogether, trembling and gasping and kissing the monster in his arms restlessly, the monster deflects a hand that attempts to stir a more visceral reaction from It.  It does so with bruising force that almost elicits the same cracking sound from the Colonel’s hand.  The Colonel doesn’t cry out or try to escape, but he does plead, “Let me make you feel good.”

 

The monster holds his hand, silently denying him the opportunity.  It does not wish to feel good.  It does not _care_.  But there is something like peace being held so tightly there will be bruises on Its mismatched skin for Its disjointed mind, and so It stays.

 

It belongs elsewhere, but It is trapped here.  Still, the Colonel does not take great offense with the decision, does not growl and drag It under the water as the monster expects him to.  Rather, unexpectedly, the Colonel kisses Its jaw, gentle and sincere, and pushes It back to the edge of the pool.  In sharp, familiar movements, the monster emerges from the pool, dripping huge quantities of water as It sits on the edge.  Feet in the water, It watches the Colonel stand between them – Itself entirely naked and the Colonel entirely clothed, but the monster feels no shame or surprise at the knowledge – and does not blink when the Colonel takes Its bare foot in hand, kissing the arch affectionately.

 

Then, shattering even the monster’s deluge of accompanying water, the Colonel crawls out of the pool, fully dressed and soaking the side of the pool in water.  He sits beside the monster, and the monster thinks how easy it would be to overwhelm him, but the man beside him does not seem ordinary.  “I know how frightened you must be,” the Colonel says in a soft, wondering tone, like he knows he is speaking to the monster. 

 

Looking at Its own hands, the monster observes the preternatural blue and red shadows, complementing the dull grey pallor of Its skin.  Seeping in through the fractured edges, the colors are mesmerizing, like hints of the other place, the one the monster knows.  Even for a creature without a sense of beauty, they’re striking to look at, holding Its attention completely. 

 

Unaware of the monster’s distraction, the Colonel rests his chin on the monster’s bare shoulder and continues.  “I’ll protect you from anyone who would stand between us, anyone who would do you harm.”  Exhaling, the Colonel says, “This world can take everyone from me but you.”

 

Together, they sit in the rain, embracing an accord.  The monster thinks that there should be others in this broken temporal space, but no one finds them, and eventually It realizes that the others have gone.  They fear the monster.  Or, maybe, they fear the Colonel more.  The monster is unsure, but the monster fears neither Itself nor the Colonel, and so It sits imperturbably in the rain.

 

It does not experience cold emotionally, even though It knows Its skin chills as night descends.  It does not move until the Colonel reacts.  With a rueful chuckle, the Colonel stands with a slap to his knee and says, “Come!  Let’s warm up by the fire.”  The monster rises smoothly and wordlessly to Its feet, still bare to the all-seeing universe.  The Colonel regards It with wonder and hunger, and then he says, “Wait here.”  The monster, patient but cool, waits.  The Colonel returns with the white necktie and redoes it.  “There,” he says, patting the monster’s bare chest.  “Now you’re ready to go out into the world.”

 

With alarm, he adds, “Oh!  I almost forgot.”  The Colonel surges out of view, and the monster turns to see him standing right behind It, holding up Its black cane.  “That bad leg of yours,” he adds explanatorily, with the conspiratorial comfort of old friends.  Coolly, the monster takes the cane, and does not say anything.  “There we are, right as rain.”  Giggling, the Colonel takes the monster’s wrist and drags It into the mansion at a speed even the monster struggles to keep up with.

 

They stumble into the living room, empty and cavernous without the others.  No Groundskeeper.  No Chef.  No Butler.  No one, but the Colonel and the Monster.  The Master is dead; so is the Seer, the Mayor, the District Attorney, and the Detective.  Yet like Mark’s corpse, there is only one living dead among them, and It sits down on the overstuffed couch with Its cane and Its white necktie and watches the Colonel stoke a fire.  One leg canted on the opposite knee, the monster experiences no discomfort in Its nakedness.

 

Shame requires culture.  It has none; It has only the Colonel.  It flexes the cane in Its hands, debating what question to ask next.  The fire flickers to life, and the Colonel disappears into the kitchen for a bottle of something that smells strong but indistinctly sharp to the monster, drinking copiously.  He must be thirsty, but the monster knows it is an emotion, a hunger that has no root in reality.  The realization is strangely comforting.  They’re both misplaced.  In a commanding voice, the monster says at last, “Tell me a story.”

 

“A story, eh?” the Colonel repeats, handing the monster the half-full bottle.  The monster drinks it down.  The flavor is sharp but tasteless; whatever effects it might have on the monster’s body are hazed by the disconnect between Its alien hands grasping the bottle and Its mind, attempting to acclimate to Its own tangibility.  Unsatisfied, It sets the empty bottle aside. 

 

The Colonel bounces to his feet and returns with a full bottle before the monster has had time to turn Its head to watch him.  There is something strange about him, but the monster only relaxes into the couch, neither at ease nor tense.  Simply aware.  The Colonel passes It the second bottle, and the monster drains its contents in one long gulp.  Again, the sharp, almost pungent taste that does not curl the monster’s lips or remove Its appetite.

 

“What sort of stories entertain _monsters_ like yourself?” the Colonel asks, taking a seat on the arm of the chair across from It, eyes glowing with the reflected firelight.  “Tales of the dead?”  He leans forward conspiratorially, still conspicuously clothed, and whispers, “Once, in this very manor, there was a Detective, a very troublesome man with a troublesome past.  He left a trail of bodies in his wake.  Something was wrong with the Detective.”

 

The monster knows this story: It can picture the Detective’s face perfectly, a hand yanking It forward by the collar of Its shirt.  “ _You’re my new partner – Partner_.”  The Detective winks, and the image vanishes like smoke.  Whatever emotion it is meant to stir, it only prompts the monster to retrieve the empty – no; full – bottle, and drink deeply.  The Colonel’s voice carries on uninterrupted in the background.  The fuzz in the monster’s ears is quieter, replaced by a different buzz, accentuated by the tiny cracks of the fireplace.

 

“He, _he_ accused _me_ of atrocities, as if my heart were half as dark as his,” the Colonel growls, voice rising.  “Yet it was _he_ who killed _Mark_!”  The Colonel lunges forward suddenly, sitting on the arm of the couch next to the monster.  He seems agitated, but his voice is steady as he continues.  “But it’s all right, now.  The Detective is gone.  Now it is just you and I in this godforsaken place.”  Leaning forward, he kisses the monster, tasting strongly but not definably, and repeats against the monster’s lips, “Just you and I.”

 

The monster permits the contact for a moment, and then It turns Its head, cracking Its own neck.  The sound reawakens Its senses, drawing Its attention to the room at large once more.  It’s easy to fall into a stupor around the Colonel.  _Dangerous_.  The monster knows that It is here solely because the Colonel brought It here, but It feels no alarm.  Maybe that is the bottle, It muses. 

 

Then the Colonel backs away, and in a whiff of smoke, the fire vanishes, plunging the space into shadow.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, but the monster relaxes, unafraid.  Leaning back, It angles a bare arm along the back of the couch, staking claim to Its place in this universe.  It inhales deeply and does not flinch when the Colonel unlaces Its necktie once again, Its cane resting near the couch. 

 

It watches with perfect detachment and disregard as the Colonel strokes Its soft cock in hand.  The Colonel murmurs words to Its neck, declarations of adoration that the monster does not reciprocate, confessions that the monster does not keep, stories that the monster has already heard.  Then the Colonel slips down Its chest and stops talking for a time.

 

There is something meditative about the way the Colonel kneels between the monster’s legs, cock captured in his mouth.  He stays there for a long time, long enough that the rain begins to taper off outside.  The monster can feel the tremble in the Colonel’s shoulders, the way he has _yearned_ for this moment for years, and senses that he is not merely offering but _taking_ what he wants.  The assertiveness does not bother It.

 

Unmoved, the monster experiences no desire to undress the Colonel, to equalize their states of being.  On the contrary: It feels more powerful for the bareness of Its own skin, uninhibited by a layer of flimsy armor.  It embraces the implicit danger, the implicit challenge.  Whatever punishment this universe exacts, It will accept it, for there is no pain or pleasure in this realm that can truly touch It.

 

Without warning or preamble, the Colonel lets go of Its soft cock, the cold sharp but not painful.  The Colonel doesn’t go far.  Crawling up to sit on the monster’s lap, the Colonel presides, tangling his arms around the monster’s neck.  The monster does not move Its arm to embrace or displace the man.  There is a warm chuckle in the Colonel’s chest, fondness and admiration in his tone as he whispers against the monster’s cheekbone, “I love you.”

 

In the same low, heavy voice as before, the monster asks, “What does that mean?”

 

The Colonel’s laughter renews, a little louder.  “It means we will be together forever.”

 

Together forever.  It echoes strangely in the monster’s chest, final.  “What is … forever?” It asks.

 

Replacing the white necktie loosely around the monster’s neck, the Colonel huffs.  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”  The monster doesn’t respond, waiting for Its answer.  “Very well.  Forever is what happens when you don’t die.”

 

A shot pierces the monster’s stomach, and It feels the pain from a universe away.  Slowly, clumsily, It asserts, “But I … already … died.”

 

“No, no, no, no,” the Colonel croons, reassuringly framing the monster’s face with his hands.  They’re warm against the monster’s skin.  It’s a little claustrophobic, being this close to the Colonel, but the monster does not push him away.  It is not threatening.  “No, you’re not dead, of course you’re not dead, you silly little monster.  You’re here with me.”  He wags the monster’s head back and forth, slowly, almost gently, so that the monster’s neck does not crack and shatter the illusion.

 

“We’ll be together forever,” the Colonel insists softly.  “Just you and I.”  Brushing a kiss against the monster’s temple, the Colonel says, “No one will take you from me.”

 

With sudden force, the monster stands, displacing the Colonel onto the couch.  There is no offense, no protest, when the monster reaches for Its clothes, now sitting on the back of a chair.  It doesn’t _like_ them, but they are more than armor: they are a _disguise_.

 

Dressed, the monster catches Its own disheveled appearance in the dark, rain-streaked window.  Something like pride sweeps over It, a rush of emotion that mimics anger and joy at once.  It cracks Its neck, and the pane fractures, the epicenter around the monster’s face.  The Colonel steps up to Its side, but his reflection does not appear in the glass.  It should trouble the monster, because the monster has no idea what realm the Colonel truly hails from, but It feels no unease.  Instead, it asks quietly, “What is this?”

 

“Darkness,” the Colonel says simply.

 

Something clicks in the monster’s chest, something finite, something – _real_ , and It regards Its own expression and sees the truth.  “Darkness,” It repeats.  Then, contemplatively, It shortens the phrase to simply: “Dark.”

 

In the broken glass, the word appears.  The monster knows It not because It understands the language, but because It recognizes the _feeling_ invoked by the symbols.  _That is darkness_.  Reaching out, It traces each letter with Its finger, until It reaches the last and presses Its entire palm against the glass.  It feels – something powerful, in the phrase, and recognizes Its own name.

 

“Dark,” It says again, and steps through the mirror.

 

The Colonel does not follow.

 

The rain ceases, and the monster senses something has broken when It looks up at a blue sky promising rain later.  Turning around, It tries to step through the glass, but the worlds remain focused, fixed.  In the glass, It sees a different form, a different outfit.  No cane, no necktie.  A face It knows, but situated at the wrong place.  The wrong time.

 

 _I haven’t died yet_.

 

Cracking Its neck, a single sharp rapport, the monster slides the door open, stepping inside the manor.  The Butler, sweeping the floor – a floor with a body impressed on It in the monster’s memory, but not here, not now, _not yet_ – looks up and asks in a pleasant tone, “Ah, Master.  How was your walk?”

 

The monster considers Its answer, one hand resting on the back of the untouched couch.  “Illuminating,” It says, an entire vocabulary of words unspooling themselves, presenting themselves, free for the taking.  It is an invitation, a hint.  _Take this disguise.  Take these words.  Now use them._

 

It follows the script, occupying so many roles that It does not know if It is predominantly Master, Seer, Mayor, or Attorney.  All, It supposes: what person subdivides themselves into their emotions, their spectral colors, their places in time?  In the end – there is no end, there is _no end_ – the monster steps through the already broken pane of glass, and the Colonel smiles at It.

 

“Forever,” the Colonel explains, holding out his arms, gesturing at the empty manor the monster left behind – a moment, a lifetime ago.  “I didn’t kill you.”  Stepping forward, he adds, “I would never kill _you_.”  He clasps the monster’s shoulders tightly.

 

Rage tightens in the monster’s chest, a burning anger that robs It of speech for a moment.  “You did this to me.”  It shoves off the Colonel, sharp, unapologetic.  Its words come almost easily, now, having lived so many lives.  “Send me back.”

 

“So you can vanish into oblivion?” the Colonel asks.  There is something hard in his tone, something foreboding.  “No.  They die.  _They_ die,” the Colonel repeats emphatically, gesticulating wildly at the empty house.  “Everyone _dies_ , but you – you, _you_ don’t.”  Awed, overjoyed, he says, “You’re perfect.”

 

The monster snarls.  “I can _die_ ,” It snaps, because It has, It is sure of this, and yet—

 

“Here you are,” the Colonel finishes aloud, smiling.  He draws his gun, pointing it at the monster’s chest, and fires.  Pain erupts, and the monster’s hands find warm, wet blood soaking Its torso, and yet – the pain, the collapse, the inevitability of oblivion does not come.  No.  When It looks down, It sees only the phantom things: Its suit is unblemished, Its skin beneath untouched, Its hands unstained.  “My perfect little monster,” the Colonel says with a laugh, belting his gun.

 

The monster surges forward, pinning the Colonel against the wall with an arm around his throat.  “Send me back,” It growls, low and dangerous.

 

In response, the Colonel laughs.  “Dark,” he says softly, and the monster releases him as though burned, suddenly, violently.  “You don’t have to be _alone_ anymore.  I’m _here_.”  He steps forward, and the monster steps back, matching his pace.  “No one _loves_ you.”  The monster trips over a chair.  The Colonel advances, words slurring a little.  “ _I_ love you, more than anyone else could ever hope to.  Their love will _die_.  Mine won’t.”

 

The monster puts the couch between them, barricading Itself from the other monster.  The Colonel laughs.  “I love a good chase,” he says.  “Run as far as you like, as long as you care to.”  Waving a hand dismissively, the Colonel adds with a grin, “I’ll wait.”  Tipping into a chair with a bubbly laugh, he seizes the empty bottle.  He drinks it down, and pink – brilliant, stupid, comically out-of-place pink – stains his mustache.

 

Furious, helpless, the monster petitions him again: “Release me.  Send me back.”

 

With another bubbly little laugh, the Colonel shakes his head.  “I can’t.”

 

Despair, fury, something unnamable seizes the monster.  Surging forward, It sinks Its hand into the Colonel’s shirt, yanking him upright.  “ _Send me back, NOW_ ,” It roars, more anguished than angry.

 

“Oh, Dark.”  The Colonel rests a hand on top of Its.  “Darkness, my old friend, you’ll never find your way out of the light again.  You should be _seen_ ,” he insists emphatically, reaching up.  The monster’s hands fall numb to Its sides; the Colonel’s rise to cup Its face, shaking it back and forth gently.  “You are the only one who matters.”

 

The monster growls, and the Colonel laughs.  “Hold onto that _fighting_ spirit,” he advises, releasing the monster’s face.  “You’ll need it to survive in this world.  Everyone you love, who will ever love you, will die.  No matter how long it takes, how gruesome the act – all of them will leave you.  They don’t _love_ you; they _leave_ you.”   He sweeps a hand out and pitches the empty bottle onto the floor, shattering it.  “But you, _you_ won’t leave me,” the Colonel croons.  “At last, we can be together.  Forever.”

 

Stalking away, through the manor, across the lawn, far out into the countryside, the monster says nothing, ignoring the sudden surge of – fear?  Anger?  Whatever it is, it is overwhelmed by the stunning, burning sense of impotency.  _Human emotions._   Already, It’s slipping, losing Its sense of detachment.  Soon, It will be resigned to Its own mortality – Its own _immortality_.

 

It never feared forever until It realized what _forever_ was.

 

The rain holds back, but thunder rumbles, carrying the monster along.

 

Its journey spans decades, centuries, even.  In the forward-backward-winding march of time, Dark knows only the rage, burning brighter, and cooler, until it is an all-consuming force.  The anger is a distant emotion to It, love more distant still – except where they serve It, where they can be _used_ – but the fire keeps It marching forward.  Keeps It searching for a way to disappear again.

 

When It finds the Colonel again in that same field – barely recognizable in an outfit best defined as _gaudy_ , pink mustache brilliantly central on his face – It expects to feel resentful, outraged.  It expects to tear into the man, the monster, until there is nothing left.  Until It, too, dissolves into oblivion, nameless and shapeless and Other once again.

 

“William,” the monster greets, because ‘Colonel’ no longer feels right.

 

A lofty smile crosses William’s face.  “It’s Wilford, now,” he introduces, stepping forward and framing Dark’s face with his hands, no preamble, no hesitation.  Dark allows it, if only because the contact is grounding, and It has been untethered in space and time for too long.  The gesture is oddly comfort, unchanging despite the lifetimes between them.  “Hello, Darkness, my old friend,” he greets, a little laugh escaping him.  “Or should I call you _Darkiplier?_ ”

 

Dark sneers.  On some level, It hates that it’s become easy to get a rise out of It, but on a broader, more encompassing level, It doesn’t _care_.  Emotions are for humans.  It is not human.  As long as It remembers that, It won’t fall prey to them.  “If you call me that, I’ll break every bone in your body,” It says simply.

 

“Darkiplier,” Wilford croons, and the monster bares Its teeth but cannot break the grip on Its face.  The urge to break, to _hurt,_ only lasts a few moments; impassivity overtakes it.  Dark’s temper cools as It finally wrenches Itself free of Wilford’s grip.  There are claw marks on Its face.  Not deep, and not particularly noticeable, but prominent enough that Dark knows they are _there_.

 

“I love you,” Wilford says, and Dark twists Its head, hating the way the words sound.

 

“I don’t want to be loved.”

 

“You keep running away from it,” Wilford points out.  Dark’s lip curls, just a little.  “I do enjoy the chase, but I would much rather make you feel _good_.”

 

Dark shoves him, hard enough to make him fall, and snaps forcefully, “I don’t want to _feel **anything**!_ ”  Wrapping Its arms around Itself, It adds forcefully, “The only _good_ you can do for me is return me to my _home_.”

 

“I’m not keeping you here.”

 

Dark’s neck cracks a little when It turns to look at Wilford.  “What?”

 

“I’m not keeping you here,” Wilford repeats, shrugging, already back on his feet.  “I haven’t the faintest idea who or what is.”

 

Dark’s mouth runs dry.  It’s a distant discomfort, but the sharpness of Its devastation is felt.  “What do you mean?”

 

“I was alone,” Wilford carries on, oblivious to the distress mounting in Dark’s voice.  Dark puts Its back to him, walking a few paces.  “Damien, and Celine, Mark, all of my friends, they _left_ me.”  His voice sounds almost petulant, but it is merely an undercurrent to a much deeper, much heavier emotion.  Thunder growls in the distance.  Dark’s heart pounds.  “But then I saw you – you, you wonderful little monster, all of my friends, everything.  You stepped out of the mirror.”

 

“I didn’t.”  Dark’s words are almost inaudible, they’re so soft.  “You did this to me.”

 

“If it helps you sleep at night,” Wilford allows with a dismissive wave of his hand, “then yes, _I_ did this to you.”  The sarcasm is so obvious it makes Dark flinch.  No.  _No_.  “You came to me, Dark.  Wherever you came from – whatever magic caused this to happen – you did that on your own.”

 

_I know that I trust Celine.  And if you trust us—_

An echo, Dark repeats aloud, “ _If you trust us_.”  Shivering, It says sharply, “I never _agreed_ —”  But It remembers affirmation, It remembers – It remembers a strange urgency to get out, to leave, to escape, to find _definition_ rather than sinking into silence.  And now that It has, It aches for the abyss once again.  Slowly, It affirms aloud, “I’m not them.” 

 

The declaration feels right, and wrong – just as waltzing around as the Master and the Mayor felt wrong, every form feels _wrong_.  Even this one – an imitation of that first day, that moment of first contact, when It looked in the mirror and beheld Its own gaze – is a paltry imitation of all that It could be.  _I am them.  I’m not them._

_I’m no one._

_I’m all of them._

Dark says quietly, “We made a mistake.”  Arms tangle around Its waist from behind, hugging It.  “A terrible mistake.”

 

“I’ll stay with you,” Wilford promises, squeezing It.  “Forever.  You aren’t alone anymore.”

 

“I wish to be alone,” Dark replies sharply, but It does not remove Wilford’s hands.  Rain dapples Its suit, Its untidy hair.

 

“Then you will have to get rid of the others,” Wilford says instructively without a hint of dismay or remorse.  “So it may be just you and I again.  Wasn’t it nice?”

 

Dark thinks back to those first hours, back when humanness was so new it was barely real, when It was still purely the monster, Darkness personified.  It thinks of how much It has changed, how it even yearns for the arms wrapped around It now, how _human_ It has become.  It must stop, or It will never find peace again.  “Kill them,” It clarifies aloud, and the arms tighten briefly in affirmation.  “Kill them _all_.”  The fire is back, and a fierce sort of determination crowds out all other thoughts from Dark’s mind.

 

“Go,” Wilford urges, releasing It.  “Free yourself, if that is what you want.”

 

Stalking off, determined, quiet, Dark resolves to do just that.


End file.
